Friday, April 29, 2011

Stripping for Shit Money in a Shit Club or "This is NOT what the Strippers On Jenny Jones Described."

So sorry for the lack of writing, but I have been having troubles with ADSENSE at Google. So I stopped writing until I could be assured that I would get my big $14 a month in ad sales on my BLOG OF PAIN! SO, I am back with the wounds of my life on display for you all to enjoy. Thanks for the great emails. I dig hearing from you. So without further wait lagging

I would like to start this entry by saying clearly - first and foremost - this is MY experience as a Topless Dancer in Reno, Nevada in the mid to late 90's. Many young ladies make great livings and may never have dealt with anything like I did. That is YOUR STORY. More power to you for ripping much cash from men where ever you worked. PLEASE DO NOT WRITE ME HATE E MAIL because I am telling my truth. You can easily create your own blog with your damaged life experience. Thanks for your consideration. Now own with my dirt.....

Have you had that hopeless moment in your life when you couldn't scrape enough change together for a gallon of gas? Had someone move out of your house and burn you for rent, leaving you fumbling to pay the whole amount yourself? Perhaps you just got fed up with your week in week out paycheck and wanted more, QUICK and easy like? I believe every female reading this has had that moment of thinking " Hey, maybe I could strip for a while, just to make a few thousand to pay for _______." Unless you live by a Book of God I believe this thought has passed through your moral compass, most likely receiving a big VETO. Well I am the one who said "Fuck it, I gotta do something."

In 1997 I made the jump from "wanna" be to being the chick teasing dicks for cash. Sex for money without penetration. Doesn't sound so easy, fun and glamorous when I boil it down to what it ends up being, huh?


1997 was a year of tough endings. First off my marriage to husband number one, Edward Atkins, was coming to an ugly and expected end. We had met 11 years previously when we were both working at a ski area. Together we had shoved each other through a drunken ringer of drama and immaturity. Dating on and off for 7 years,  at the ripe old age of 24 I decided I was getting over the hill in the pursuit of a lifetime partner (AHAHAHAHAHAHAH), so Ed and I had the white wedding with family, set up house together with me issuing a check mark next to "MARRIED" on my life's list of things to do.

After 4 years of me complaining and Edward ignoring me I cheated with an ex boyfriend, took off to Mexico for a month and left Ed holding down our business, a record store. He was sick of me, I was sick of me so we parted ways. Me keeping the house with large mortgage, the nearly bankrupt record store and my dogs. Him with a dog, 5k one time lump sum payment, a promise of alimony and everything else we had owned together. Oh yeah, and his dignity. Me, not so much in the self respect and dignity department.

Not one to waste time reflecting on what the hell I had just done to fail in my last relationship, I latched on to the ex-boyfriend I had cheated on Edward with (he was way too needy and not so desirable when I was actually free to date him.) Up next, in no particular order were a general contractor, a bartender, another bartender and a guy who just chuckled with a wiry twisted grin when I inquired as to what he did for a living. 

As a way to help some youngster musicians who I knew from my record store, my empty garage was turned into a practice space for local bands I booked to perform at downtown bars. Of course one of the many benefits of having younger bands around is they graciously brought booze and more boys. Most nights the guys paraded in front of me were too young and dumb. Then I met Rich B. Deceivingly young looking for his 35 years, he could pass for at least a decade younger. Nice build, had some brains still rolling around his THC soaked skull, and he made me laugh. No baby momma, no psycho ex wives and no job. Me being super smart with fantastic decision making skills I moved Rich right in to my house after 2 weeks of "dating." Those few rendezvous included drinking at bars with extensive micro brews on tap, purchasing booze to suck down all night at home in the hot tub and watching badly overdubbed Bruce Lee movies.

As my new relationship blossomed my record store was tanking. A slow slide had been going on for 2 years. Some of it being me blowing my very low profit margin on video poker, Bud Light and my ex husbands race car hobby. In addition to my "issues" the local mountain community was buying their music in Reno to save a dollar or two. The purchase price of a compact disc at Target was less than I could buy it for wholesale. A great loss leader for these big stores, it brought people in. For us little mom and pop music stores it helped kill us all. I held on as long as possible. Even tried a different location, performing piercings and selling smoking accessories. Still it just wasn't enough to warrant keeping the doors open. With a complete feeling of failure and shame I closed the doors in May of 1997.

Money wasn't a problem for the next 3 months. I was flush from liquidating the fixtures and inventory. Then a temp job piercing in Sacramento fell in my lap that would last all summer for the guy who had taught me to pierce. Mind you, the commute was a bitch each day, but the money was very good. An extra bonus was not having to face any of the locals asking me "what happened to your record store?" Each time some well meaning townie asked me this I wanted to open their throat with my teeth! What the fuck do you think happened! It was a blessing to get the hell off the mountain each day for 12 hours.

By Autumn my temp job had ended, the bucks from my failed business had been spent and "surprise" Rich wasn't trying to make any money except using his so called green thumb "mad skills" growing pot. Smoking most of his yield meant no money for bills, and let me tell you, he never saw a nice bud that he couldn't dry out and smoke. This he did constantly, providing zero currency towards household bills, but ah shucks, he sure was happy and hungry all the time.

Behind on my mortgage by a month desperation started to take hold. Outright fear evolved  when I had no money to fill my propane tank.  No fuel equates to no hot water or heat as the days got cool. Bad breeding by my birth parents means I am cursed with straight and fine white girl hair. One day without shampooing makes me look like a crack whore during a busy night on her back. Just does not sound appealing, does it? Spending my evenings drinking, hanging out with the band boys was not an option any longer. Back to work I must go......

Record store clerk was not going to pay the note on the house, let alone gas, insurance, groceries and life's necessities, therefore I wouldn't bother with those applications. Bar tending locally was okay money. Facing all the questions about my store closing was not a situation I could put myself in to. Swallow my pride while taking dollar tips for cans of Coors? No can do.

As the days passed my monetary situation wasn't improving. The Gods had yet to shower me with money out of nowhere. Prayers were somehow going unanswered. For some damn reason my whole mess wasn't going to fix itself. Getting more and more anxiety ridden, stripping started to enter my mind. Taking baby steps around my thought track. Contemplating the idea of "it" for a moment or two, then stopping quickly - seemingly out of breath at the shock of it. My gut dismissing it as not for me. With reasons like: no dance training, too chubby at the moment, what would people say, whatever. Off to other ideas for a few hours, then once again stripping would come back around for another trip flying through my mind. 

Ethics and morals acted as a little church choir in my head. Chanting a soft hymn of "good girls do not lower themselves to these types of perversion for income." Clearly hearing this I would say "There is no way I can do something like stripping." Talking myself out of making the first inquiry was easy with the church choir singing sweetly in my mind. However, as my desperation became panic, morals became something I could no longer afford to have. 

Trying to recall what little knowledge I had regarding the business of stripping, brainstorming a list was in order. Formed on binder paper, willing my beer violated mind to summon forth what I had heard on various daytime t.v. programs.  Information was freely given by the many balloon busted, teased haired broads I had wasted countless hours watching weekly. Bad t.v. talk shows in the late 80's and early 90's were in their own class of ridiculous not matched in this millennium. Ricki Lake, Susan Powter, Geraldo, Phil Donahue, every one of the dozen talk shows on during that period always had stripper centered show on every month or so. Just like devil worship and satanic sacrifice was hot topic television in the early to mid 80's, topless dancers and strippers were the next sure fire attention grabber for these daytime shows. Before I had to get up and head off to work each day, many of my free hours were wasted on this adult pablum. Completely fascinated by these woman and how much money they claimed to make. Like taking candy from a baby they claimed. Thousands a night, just for dancing! Shit, sign me up!

Rich didn't seem to care what I did, so long as he wasn't going to have to look for a job. With his vote of confidence and half a tank of gas I rambled in my 20 year old Subaru down the mountain towards Reno. A phone book open to the yellow page listings of Gentleman's Clubs, I had decided to aim high and hit the best one first, Fantasy Girls.

Arriving in late afternoon, the parking lot was almost empty, having a few beat up Honda type economy cars and half a dozen work trucks parked near the small entrance. Sitting in my car, I was naturally having second thoughts. Stomach churning and full of anxiety, I swung the car door open - getting out before I turned around and left. Silently giving myself a pep talk of "You can do it girlie" I walked through the door.

Inside was as dark as a cave, the usual set up of neon, tables, stage, bar and such. Bad pop rock music blaring overhead. Walking to the bar the taste of bile started to rise in my throat. Fuck am I nervous! Standing next to the bar, shaking slightly, a skinny dancer approached and asked if I was a new girl. Telling her no, but I was looking to become one, she lead me through the back of the club to a plain office door. Knocking hard, then pushing the door slightly open, skinny dancer gently nudged me inside, then closed the door behind me.

The manager was a good looking younger cat with dark brown hair, dressed in casual business attire. His energy was good, so I relaxed just a bit. I sat in the chair he offered and let out a tiny sigh that I know he heard. Embarrassed that he heard my exhale, my eyes fell to my feet for a moment. Then I was asked quite a massive list of questions about my qualifications: 1. "Have I ever danced in a club before?"  "No sir, not yet." and number 2. "Do you have any tattoos?" " Yes sir, tons of them."

Mr Manager then rushed through a speech he must have given many times before. There was no way he could hire me if I had a lot of tattoos. Explaining that he ran a more upscale club, and the patrons expected good looking, classy types as topless entertainers. Tattoos, no matter how well done, were considered trashy. Thank you very much, have a nice day. shall I have one of the girls show you out?

Geez, this isn't a good sign. Seems that there was very few requirements for this profession, but golly gee, tattoos were going to knock me out of the running before I got the chance to embarrass my damn self and fall down on the shitty stage! Could I try and cover up all my ink with make up? How the hell could I put liquid foundation over my entire back? This was the one time my mother was right! Tattoos were ruining my chance to get a job I wanted. Hate it when she is right!

Across the seedy street from Fantasy Girls was a less desirable club named "The Spice House." Many times I had been inside this place when it had been a punk rock club. Thinking about the interior layout of the joint, I couldn't imagine how the new owner had managed to turn the space into a strip club. Upon entering I realized the new owner hadn't done much, just added a terrible looking plywood runway 4 feet tall - jutting out from the center of the old stage. Painted a glossy black, already chipped to hell from cheap stiletto heels - the stage, hell the whole damn place, looked crappy enough to hire a tattooed dancer with no experience! Boy was I wrong.

A 5 months pregnant dancer (yes it was obvious) came from behind the tattered velvet curtain, took me to the dancers dressing room, and gave me the lowdown. Management needed dancers badly (that is why this dancer was still moving and grooving all knocked up) yet  management wanted only "clean" girls. The future baby momma dancer was not talking about hygiene, it was her special way to tell me " no dope and no ink." Once again my dreams had been crumbled. After letting this future welfare mother know I had a great deal of tattoos I could see she was as disappointed as I was ( maybe she was hoping she wouldn't have to dance as much if I started to work there?) , she gave me a tip as I started to walk out. "Try the Pink Pussycat over on Wells Avenue. They take anyone."

Shall I mention that the way this cum dumpster chose to form her parting advice made me feel like the ugliest chick that ever walked the earth? I yearned to slap her fat face! But broke bitches like myself cannot be picky on how they "receive" what they so greatly need. Much as I didn't care for delivery, I needed the lead. So I smiled and said thanks through clenched teeth, making my way outside.

Inside my junk car I considered the tip. Many times I had passed this so called "club" while driving here or there. It looked like any old bar. Made of cinder blocks with a dull tan paint job and half burned out neon signs - I had always given it a "what a shit hole" casual thought then disregarded the place. Now it seemed I had to reconsider what I was willing to deal with to make the money I so desperately needed.

Pulling in to the small rear parking lot of the Pink Pussycat I thought about hanging up this idea of stripping. Talking myself out of it would be easy enough. Having already faced rejection twice, my tattoos keeping me from my goal, heading home would be so easy. Money, needing it so very much, kept me from my easy out. Having my house facing foreclosure kept me walking into that dump on that afternoon. No way was I going to hand my home to the fucking bank. So in the scratched, black painted glass door I went.

Dark as a teenage goths bedroom I had to give my eyes a good 5 seconds to adjust. The entryway went one direction, left to a small wooden bar lined with 6 old vinyl bar stools. I half ran up to the  50-ish  blond behind the bar and quickly asked "You hiring dancers?" She grinned and said "Always." Well this is good news!

As "Grandma Blondie" explained how things worked I pretended to listen, yet my eyes roamed around this bar and I couldn't believe what I was taking in. This place looked like the "Titty Bar Time Forgot." Painted an old school crushed velvet red, with black lights thoughtfully placed in no particular fashion. A few small wood laminate tables you should find in an Oklahoma diner.  A small "L" shaped stage in the far corner with a jukebox next to the stairs to get on it. A few beat up chairs along the tip rail. WOW, heaven on earth! Oh well, I guess it will do..

So Grandma Blondie explained she wanted me "to go to the Wal Mart and buy yourself some t-bar panties (WTF?!), a short satin like robe and show up tomorrow at 4pm." Then I replied "Okay, I can do that, but can I stay and watch the girls work for a few minutes and see how things work?" Grandma Blondie rolled her eyes to the heavens and thought to herself for a moment and then replied "Okay honey, but for just the time it takes to finish a draft beer. It makes it harder for the girls to make money on stage if a pretty girl is standing by her lonesome at the bar." Seems logical.....I guess.

A few moments later my eyes were filled with purple, head to toe cheap lingerie in a hue that hurt to look at. Inside all that Target finery was a plump young lady, straight mud brown hair to her shoulder blades, looking at the carpet as she gripped her purple Le Sport Sac purse and made her way to the stage. I was on the edge of my bar stool with wonder and curiosity!

Music suddenly filed the small space, some shitty KISS song called "Lets Put The X in Sex", and "Purple People Eater" stepped onto the tip rail. PPE gripped two dancer poles - keeping herself between them and slowly rocked to and fro looking at the floor with her hair covering her face. All I could think was "Whoa!" The next 3 minutes dragged painfully slow as PPE just kept up the same move, but to her credit she kept the beat. When the song stopped she stayed in place waiting for her next tune. I downed my beer, said my goodbye to Grandma Blondie and made my way out.

On my way back up the mountain towards home I reflected on what the hell I had just bear witness to. Maybe this girl was drunk? Perhaps she was mentally challenged? Had some type of dancer sprain and needed to take it easy? Most likely she just didn't care or have to do any more than her sorry little sidestep to make her dollars. Shit, I was going to look like Ginger Rogers of the topless world if all I had to work with is this level of dancer! Big money will be coming my way tomorrow night if this PPE is making a living doing nothing on stage!

I gathered my so called "T-bars", packed all the sexy type of clothing I owned (which didn't amount to much) and filled my flask with some $6.99 a quart of Rom Rico rum. Feeling ready to take on my new career in entertainment I got into bed with my bum of a boyfriend and tossed and turned all night with worry and "what ifs ?" Rich was of no help, no comforting words, seeming to be just pleased that money was going to be coming in again, no matter the way. What a guy!

The next morning and early afternoon went by at a pace that mirrored a Catholic wedding. Looking at the oven clock constantly I seemed to be crawling out of my smoothly shaved skin! By 3 pm I grabbed my bag and hit the road, Rich waving goodbye from the deck with bloodshot eyes and a shit eating grin across his face. An evening of pot smoking, snacking and martial art movies ahead of him. 

Because this story is wayyyy long, part 2 will be coming at you in 1 weeks time! Hang in there, it gets worse....hahahahahahahah   Kathleen

Thursday, April 28, 2011

Trading with Boys / Sex = Comfort and Attention

(Me at age 5,  kindergarden school picture day. I hated this "pixie" haircut. My adoptive mother thought it was "so cute and stylish." Daily I cried when strangers would remark on what a cute little boy I was. It does prove that at one time I was just a sweet, innocent soul.)

In 1973 my adoptive mother went in to the hospital for some "womans"surgery. At age 5 this was super scary.  My adoptive father was never too hands on with me, only with my brother Ken - their natural child - who is 8 years older than I am.

The second night my mother was gone, Ken - my so called brother - came into my room, sat on the little bed where I was already tucked in, and announced the following statement: " Did you know that mom and dad found you floating in a toliet and decided to keep you?" Already a jumble of "missing my mommy nerves" I asked him to explain this awful  news. He went on to explain. "Well, your adopted. That means you had another mommy and daddy, but they didn't want to keep you, too ugly I guess. They flushed you down their toilet and MY mom and Dad decided to fish you out and keep you."

Instantly I was bellowing for my mommy, not believing these terrible lies Ken was spewing. Screaming, wailing and heartsick, Ken grinned ear to ear, enjoying my misery. After a minute my father came in, doing his best to awkwardly try to comfort me, asking Ken "What the hell did you say to her?" Ken, trying to hide his glee said " I told her the truth about being adopted." Ken then scurried from my room as my father slowly turned to me, completely unsure of what to say. Through sobs I asked him if what Ken said was true? My father replied the best way he knew how, saying softly "yes, you are adopted. But you are super special. We chose you. Your mommy and I wanted a little girl so bad. We found you and decided you were just the little girl we wanted."
Trying to wrap my 5 year old brain around this was quite a challenge. In 1973 I barely knew what adoption was, having known one girl in school who said she was adopted. That her parents had picked her out. Still,  the whole concept was very vague to a 5 year old.

When my mother came home from the hospital she did her best to explain, using the same type of language my father had used. About them wanting me, I was special, picking me out, etc.  What was on my mind was "why had my real mommy and daddy given me away?" To this my adoptive parents had no answer. Just that maybe they couldn't keep me because they were young...not knowing the truth themselves. None of the reasons they could come up with made me feel any better. Suddenly I was saddled with a lot of unknowns I was not ready to accept or understand. My 5 years old brain just decided I must not be worth much to my real family if they just gave me away. The  "adoptive" brother must not like me if he wanted to hurt me so much. That my adoptive parents couldn't love me as much as their birth child Ken. A hole opened in my heart and the start of a shell grew around the rest of me instantly. One that lasts until this day. Now that you have the backstory, let us move on to the boys.

In grammer school most of the girls in my  "Click" were "going steady." This entailed the boy asking you to go steady with him, then giving you his colored glass St. Christopher necklace. Other students could tell who you were going steady with by the color of the glass on the front of the medle. These relationships usually lasted a number of weeks. Then a form of "boyfriend Twister" would take place as everyone switched up who they were going steady with. All the drama you could expect from a 5th grade soap opera!

By junior high the stakes were greater. Who you went steady with made a major difference as to what girl click you became a member of. Grammer school click placement had no bering on junior high worthiness. The better, most desirable pimple faced little bastards of "good" breeding only wanted the Farrah Fawcitt wanna bes, pale skin, blued eyed, b cups with skin tight Calvin Klein jeans. Once I arrived at my new school I was no longer 'top click" material. I did my best to try and buy the right preppy clothes that my parents couldn't afford, to feather my hair like every other girl, all to no avail. I was dropped quickly from my old group of friends, for what seemed to be nothing more than my olive skin, shyness and adoptive family background. That HURT. Daily I found myself in the school nurse office, feigning ailments so I could go home. What little self worth I possesed in grade school now completely gone.
7th grade, trying to look like everyone else, with little luck. So awkward, so shiny skinned and very unhappy.

After about a month of drifting, hiding and leaving the closed campus the one crowd that I managed to find a spot in was the misfit stoners. As long as you "partied", smoked cigarettes during free time between classes and acted tough you could be warped into their universe. Being that I didn't rank with any other groups, and I had no self worth at this point, being a stoner / party kid was good enough for me. I was grateful I just had a place to go during lunch!

 Very few young females of John F Kennedy Jr High wanted to be labeled a bad girl. Hell, at first I didn't even want it! But with self esteem in short supply plus not feeling a part of my family or previous group of girlfriends this seemed like the best fit. Including myself there was 4 of us. For each one of us girls there was at least 3 greasy boys in hard rock t shirts, dirty bell bottom jeans with a large plastic comb hanging out of the back pocket and hiking boots. None of them would have been considered good looking. Or even be gifted with any skills outside or rolling joints or pilfering booze from Thrifty Drugs.

Scott M was the 8th grader who I set my sights on. In my eyes he was the best choice for boyfriend material for one reason only. The other girls hadn't smeared their signature Bonnie Bell lip gloss all over him. Too tall for his young age, bone thin with a big blonde stoner fro.  He lived with his wanna be biker dad in a house that hadn't scene a female touch in many moons. Mom was long gone, and didn't seemed to be missed.

The courtship was pretty lackluster. Sitting in the designated stoner area named CHINA GROVE, Scott would light my cigarettes and tell dirty jokes I never understood. Between classes we would search each other out to complain about the next class. After school we would sit at a park and do more of the same. Night time meant a few phone calls with lots of dead air as I struggled to find a topic. Scott didn't seem to care about holding up his end of it. So there I would hang, asking exciting questions like "what did you have for dinner?"

After about a week Scott started putting the moves on me. Going in for a peck between classes. Sloppy tongue kisses wet with spittle when saying goodbye for the day. AND when we would find ourselves at a friends house with parents at work hands starting roaming. I never said no, hitting certain "bases" was expected in this group of kids. Yet none of the physical "affections" of Scott ever made me swoon with delight, or even made me feel very good. It always felt like I was putting up with his touch, never enjoying it. I just wanted it over with.

Why did I even allow him to touch me? 13 year old Kathleen let Scott touch her because that is what her friends did with their boyfriends. Jr High Kathleen wanted someone to show her she was wanted, and at that point it didn't really matter how he showed it. Funny thing really. Even though I  thought I wanted Scott to show me how much he liked me, when it came down to the actual physical acts, I wasn't ready and I should have stopped. Yet like the mixed up little girl I was, I just kept going. Happy to trade my body for some attention from this icky boy. Just to belong to someone, anyone. To fit in with the others.

After about 3 months of "dating"- Scott and I broke up. The reason long forgotten, however I do remember feeling rejected. That was the emotion that was painful. I was still a part of the group, and I never was really caught up in a pure and true emotion of digging this boy. Yet having someone no longer a daily part of my life was a loss I couldn't put into words. Girls of the group sat with me as I faked a sadness I didn't feel and we picked my breakup apart. Smoking cigarettes one after another and talking about how much fun I would have now that I was single. But I wouldn't be single long........

The next school year I met Steve P. He was new to the school, having just moved from his mothers home to his dads. One of the other girls named Becky had tried to use her slutty persona to lure him in, never the less this boy didn't seem to want what so many had already had. Steve hung around China Grove simply because his younger sister Shelly did No smoking of any kind, beers when he could steal them from his dad and brother - jock vibe mostly. This time around I got some butterfly goodness rolling around in me.Steve was on my mind all day. Constantly he would catch me looking out the side of my sunglasses, smiling at him in all my toothy lameness.

One morning after much awkward flirting on my part Steve asked me to go have pizza with him after school. Let me tell you, I was sweating and blushing like a fool! Yes flew from my mouth and I rushed to share my good fortune with the other chicks. Giddy with the news I ran up on the group and practically yelled "Guess who has a date with Steve P after school today!!?!!"  As the girls looked toward me I could tell by the scowls some one wasn't going to be happy. That person being the previously rejected Becky.

Now knowing I had violated a rule I had not known was in place, I started to stumble all over my words, half apologizing to Becky, not having a clue as to what to say. Backing up because I knew she was a brawler, and I didn't want to face my very first beat down in front of half the school. Becky proceeded to call me a "white trash hooker bitch" that stole her man and to get the fuck away from her before she socked me up." Being that she already intimidated me daily I sprinted to the nearest girls bathroom and hid in a stall, shaking with anxiety and fear.

How can this be? Steve should be fair game if he wasn't biting Becky's sex hook by now. Why can't I have him if he likes me? Will the other girls shut me out like Becky has? Should I cancel my date with Steve so I can still have girlfriends? After giving myself some time to calm down, I decided a few things. No one was going to tell me who I could and couldn't go out with. Becky scared me but I knew if I didn't fake some toughness back, Becky would have a power over me I didn't want any female to have. To hell with her and the rest of the girls, I am going out with Steve!

For the next 9 months I was as happy as I could ever recall being. Steve and I became inseperable after out first date. Either he was at my house or I was at his. Walking hand in hand the 4 blocks between homes, we must have looked like straight fools in love. My mother started to bitch that Steve and I spent too much time with each other. As far as I was concerned, my mother could keep her opinions to her damn self! Never had I been so sick with it...all the emotions I read about in SEVENTEEN magazine were coming true for me. I had my guy, I was sure we belonged together "forever" , all that drag you believe during your first real love relationship. BARF. "Someday we will get married" BARF "He's my soul mate" BARF - you get my drift.
Steve and I at Homecoming early my freshman year. Wearing the snazzy white dress was a big stretch for my sinning,  hymen-less soul!

At the start of my freshman year, Steve and I had hit all the heavy petting "base"s. This was accomplished by hooking up at night (after my mandatory family dinners) at various seedy locations like the local bowling alley. Or sneaking out after our parents went to bed. Getting trashed at lame kegger parties somewhere in the woods. Each time I would get a little bit tipsy and go just a bit farther down the sinners trail of lust. Steve never forced himself on me or made me do anything I didn't have the primal urge to do, and with his smooth moves he sure was persuasive. My emotions were absolutely overwhelming as we explored one another.  By October, Steve could sense the time had come to hit the home run. My "sick in love" pathetically needy way made me ripe for the picking. Shit I was over ripe!

The chosen night of my deflowering, Steve's dad and step mother were out getting hammered at their favorite dive. All siblings were gone, and we had his house alone. Prince Charming put some music on and then led me to the water bed. Starting with the usual slow seduction , Steve knew how to get me where he wanted to go. After a few minutes, we both got all worked up, the Levis slowly started to shimmy off. Under the covers I was frightened witless, unsure if this was the right thing to be doing with the right guy at the right time? As questions swirled, my panties slid down one ankle and the moment arrived. Things went quick and somewhat painful from there, with my mind running off and away from the moment. Ultimate male conclusion occurred, while I wondered if this was really all that was to it??? Sure, I felt guilty, and hoped my parents wouldn't find out what nasty sins Steve and I were partaking in. I was sure scared of that info getting out to them or anyone else for that matter! Yet what bugged and bothered me batty was how UNSATISFACTORY this intimate giving of my purity had ended up. No closer or bonded did we seem. Zero pleasure, and I was all slimy to boot!

Steve parents arrived loudly and very drunk, moments after the deed was done. Being a gentleman, he walked my sore sad ass home (all bowlegged and drippy.) Practically running threw the front door, I was so petrified my mother would look in my eyes and see I had lost my virginity, or wonder why  my 501's seemed damp at the croch! Thankfully she herself was smashed and passed out from wine in a box, therefore I could slink away to my bathroom and bed without complication. I pondered what I did and reflected on my growing bad decision making when it came to boys.

Change came quickly to my steady relationship after  "giving it up." For a few days Steve teased me with playful come ons and promises as to what he would do to me next time. But now that I had gone all the way, Steve felt there was no valid excuse to deny him full on sex. Every situation and each time we were kissing or making out, he wanted intercourse, not just the lead up, and the foreplay-which is what I actually enjoyed! Now I felt obligated to give him what he pouted for. This new ritual made me mad, and I played my own pouty little games to get any other type of attention  I could get from him that didn't involve my panties coming off my hips.

A mere 3 weeks later it was plain as day that Steve was pulling away. No longer did he put me first, or even seem to care where I was. My calls didn't get returned as fast. When I asked what he had been up to, his answers became vague, indifference pushing through his expression when actually bothering to meet my eyes. The end was near. Woman's instinct told me this and I was terrified of losing my first love! I felt I was nothing without him! No identity of my own, he was all that mattered in my 14 year old mind! Were we not meant to be? Together forever?!?!

Steve pulled the plug 1 month after declaring his undying love for me. What cheap currency my virginity was. Yet again I felt alone, worthless and ugly in every way. My days had been all about Steve, my orbit was programmed to his planets! days and evenings - life as a whole was US. Now WHAT???!!!!!  Immediately, intensely the stalker in me came rushing to the forefront. Nightly my phone line was busy with me blowing up the phone of anyone who hung out with Steve, begging for information as to if he had mentioned me? Who he had been hanging around, or the worst, most painful question, who was he flirting with?  Shortly after starting my detective work  I found out Steve had been pursuing a rich sophmore named Mimi.

News of this cocksucker  moving on this fast made my guts twist with pain, sorrow and hate! How could he do this? So this is love? Getting convinced to give up everything about yourself mentally and physically to get shit upon? That sure doesn't seem very fair to me! And I sure let Steve, and his new sweetheart Mimi,  know I wasn't too thrilled with this type of treatment!

Paint jobs on their vehicles were ruined in days. Shit was talked to any and every female on campus as to the inferior cock size of my ex. Loose morals of "girls who flirt with taken guys" was turned in to Mimi being called a whore in the halls. Crank calls sleepily dialed from pay phones at 2 am woke up entire households. Sugar in gas tanks. Graffiti a drunken sailor would blush about was littering restroom walls. Whatever I could think up to disrupt Steve and Mimi's courtship was done with glee!

However, at the end of the day, I was still alone and hurting. Didn't matter how many pats on the back I got from others. Once the initial high of fucking them over was gone I was still wounded. Hurting them didn't cure my ills. Eventually I got bored and stopped. My pain decided that what I most needed was another guy to take Steve's place. Why work on my personal issues of low self esteem, not liking myself, having no tight friendships based on mutual affection. Getting lost in the rush of a new romance seemed like an easier and much more enjoyable journey.

The next year was a series of brief relationships that burned hot and fast, yet got smothered under my blanket of  neediness. Once these guys would say they dug me, or feigned interest I was all over them. Calling constantly. Showing up at band practices when I was not invited. Buying them gifts they didn't deserve.  All too much too quick. These boys would get some pussy, and go on their merry way. Lord knows that after my experience with Steve, I wouldn't even stand back and take an inventory of what I may have done wrong, I just picked out a new target. Not liking myself at all added to me giving up my body to just about every guy I dated. My body, my vagina, turned into a cheap currency that held no value to myself, so why should I bother to say no to these guys? If I got some attention and affection then I guess we both got something we wanted. Sadly I was always the one getting the worst end of our "deal."

By my junior year I had transfered to a private school for fuck ups called Mid Peninsula. My welcome at my old high school was long worn out, (a topic for a future blog entry) I wanted a new start with new faces. Different kids than the ones I had been around for more than a decade. My general look, demeanor and beliefs had evolved  over the previous few years since popping my cherry. Punk rock filed my ears with  fast beats and angry lyrics that I fell in love with. This music was my soundtrack! The look of punk fit me too. Never was I fond of, or could afford, the whole early preppy look. Junior high had proven that scene wasn't for me, nor did it want my lower middle class ass!  Putting together and affording my punk look was easy, with numerous locations of Salvation Army and St Vincent De Paul - thrift store chic was cheap and fun. My adoptive mother would act like she was going to retch every time I brought home a smelly paper sack of used clothing! Bless her heart though, she would always peg my 'bell bottom 70's finds" into stove pipe skin tight trousers any punk chick would have died for.

 My boyfriend through my Mid Pen Years, Steve Dyson. We are too punk for the camera!

I loved Mid Pen (as much as I could love any school) when I started. Only 130 students, smoking on campus, calling teachers by their first names, and 6 punks, 3 of them guys! Woo hoo!! The 2 other girl punks I got along with from the git go. The curriculum was more to my tastes, like creative writing  and psychology, Subjects that I had an actual interest in. What a concept! School was more than a place to meet guys and plan my next drinking binge.

Steve Dyson was the guy who won my attention and devotion from day I met him. He went out of his way to make each date fun. Flowers and candy would appear in the front seat of my hatchback Mustang. Plans were made for each weekend with both of us deciding what WE would like to do. Best yet, sex did not have to happen right away. Developing a  natural rhythm of dating, no longer did I obsess on my boyfriend 24/7. Female friends were now important to me. Steve was healthy in his dating style, therefore bringing me along and teaching me a healthy way to be together. Life was humming along in a way I dug. So of course I had to ruin it with a slutty and shitty move....

After being together a year I fucked around on Steve. There is no "reason." that can justify what I did. Steve hadn't treated me poorly. No revenge was intended by my sleazy move. everything was good, not boring.  I just acted out in a self destructive manor. Putting a huge hole in my good love life.  Just to feel desirable, to feed my own ego.

Here is what happened. It was a weekday night, an old friend from my previous high school called and asked if I wanted to go to the drive in. Not having to work that night at the record store, and wanting to catch up with her I said yes. On the way, we picked up some beer with my fake i d and started to get buzzed. By the time the sun set and the movie hit the screen I was drunk. Not gross stinking drunk, yet plenty liquored up to let my inhibitions and morals fall to the ground.

3 guys who knew my friend were also at the drive in. Sauntering up to the car my eyes fixed on one tall, brown haired 19 year old named Greg. Currently he was in the Navy - stationed at Alamada Navel Base,  and assigned to an aircraft carrier. He offered me more beers, I drank them fast like I had something to prove about my stamina for alcohol. By the second movie, I was in the backseat of his car, going way too far with someone I just met, not giving two shits that I had a fantastic boyfriend. All I cared about was being desirable to this other stranger. Having sex with this random guy just made me hit another type of high in my body chemistry. Be damn giving my word to Steve D. Getting my sleazy heavy petting on in that car, at that moment,  in that drive in, shitting all over my promises, was what I wanted in that moment.

Waking up the next morning, guilt washed over me like a shit shower. Never had I felt this bad about my behavior. What the hell had I done last night??? All for some instant gratification at the expensive price of degrading myself physically and morally. No answers I had within myself were satisfactory. Something is very wrong with me, I knew it then, but it would take another decade to put it all together and explain it all to myself and others.

Never knowing when to keep my mouth shut, Steve found out most of the truth within a week. Tears dripped from both our eyes as I told him 95% of the evenings events. 5% of the information would have just lead to more questions and more pain I didn't have the ovaries to fess up to at that time in my teen life. Explanations of " I was drunk" felt hollow. Alcohol wasn't to blame. Beer just helped lube me up for trouble. It made it easier to be a slutty, no good, lying dirty dick troll. Hate for myself crept forward again.

Bless Steve D's heart, he did give me a second chance. After much talk, many promises from me, and snide comments from him we went forward with just a few days break. And so it goes after that kind of betrayal, nothing was the same or could be the same no matter how much I wished and prayed it would snap back to how it was before that night. No trust was left and communication between us was stifled.

Senior year was near its end, so too was Steve and I's bond. Limping to a sad but expected conclusion we broke up for good in March. The previous November my adoptive parents had moved to the Sierra Mountains. Staying behind for my cool record store job and to finish high school just didn't seem to matter anymore without Steve. My self worth was wrapped around winning him back, fixing what I had broken. I failed in making things right for us. I had fucked it all up.

Short by about 30 credits, my councilor informed me I would have to attend summer school for a diploma. Instead of planning for summer school I cashed in all my chips. Quitting my beloved job, dropping out of school, I loaded my truck and ran away from the destruction I had created in my life. Truckee, California here I come! New life, new people here I come! Bye Bye wreckage of my life! What I need is a clean slate and a new start.....funny how you can move away from your old life, yet the old you is still there in your new location.....ugh.......

So that is part 1 of my life with males. In the next couple of months we will pick up the story from ages 19 until 37...all the husbands and such...and how I came to realize why I did what i did when being slutty, not keeping my word, and being a general piece of shit to the men in my life until the age of 28. So stay tuned for more of that. Next topic will be " STRIPPING for SHIT MONEY in SHIT CLUBS or THIS IS NOT WHAT THE STRIPPERS ON JENNY JONES DESCRIBED!!!"  this will be an eye opener for you young ladies thinking about stripping for some quick bucks!  A couple of more quick notes. Please click an ad if any interest you to help drive my blog. If you have any thoughts e mail or comment them. Feedback is great! Final note, you can stay informed on new entries to my blog a few easy ways. On the top right of the blog is an "email sign up" or use your Google log in information to become a follower" My goal is to gain 100 followers in the next 100 days, so pass my blog on if you dug my story. Thanks ! Kathleen...

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Remember the bad girl in high school?

Ever wonder what became of the "bad girls" you went to school with? When you think back to those clicks - made up of "those type of girls", do you remember them for the fun you could find in their company? How they dressed to titillate or scare their peers? Perhaps the thought of their slutty ways making you wince with moral pride? I do not know if you think of them at all-but I myself was one of those girls...all grown up and in my 40's. What I so desperately want to achieve in this blog is to examine my brain and heart, and all the experiences in my life that lead me to who I am today. Why I chose, and still choose to this day, to be one of those girls your mom said you couldn't hang out with. To help in holding your attention in a sea of blogs I am going ahead and giving you a list of the topics and stories I am going to weave into my blog in the foreseeable future. So if you choose to follow my humble blog, you'll know what lurid tales of debauchery, craziness, fun and pain you may find. Here is my "Bad Girl List of Topics:"
  1. Trading with Boys / Sex for Comfort and Attention.
  2. Drinking, Druggin and Fightin for what?
  3. Becoming a Junior High Punk Rocker in 1980
  4. Stripping for Shit Money in Shit Clubs or "This Is Not What The Strippers on Jenny Jones Described, Where is the Big Money and Glamorous Life!"
  5. Why Violent Felons are my choice in Fellas
  6. Never believe in the fairy tale of "A Knight in Shining Armour"
  7. Blood is the Bond I Never Had - What Impact Being Adopted Had on My Vida Loca.
  8. Boyfriends, Fiancee's and Husbands or " I Just Can't Get Enough"
  9. Tattooing, Convicts and The Outlaw Life.
These are the areas of my life I see the most potential in storytelling for both of us dear reader. Topics for me to pick apart - for baring my soul, healing my head and letting you benefit from the fun/pain.
All memories, dialog and whimsy will be drawn from my own opiate soaked brain. Therefore it will be a bit spotty and one sided. So if I know or have known you personally don't get pissy if I have times, dates, names and events a bit sideways. Also, NO names will be changed to protect anyone who didn't have my best interest at heart when they said they did. Husband number threes' scurrilous treatment of me will not be glossed over. No cock sizes will be embellished to porn star size and I shall be no ones whipping boy in my own blog. So there!

At the end of the day my blog is about helping myself. Dare I say even liking myself and being happy after making many mistakes, sometimes the same one, over and over. For the last 10 years I actually like living in my own skin! That I never thought would happen. All of this self help achieved with no so called" professional intervention or treatment" involved.
The photo is of me and hubby that we snapped at Prosser Lake, near Truckee, California a few years back. Notice the lack of smiles? Folks like to say "Smile honey! What's so bad, be happy!" Just because we are absent of toothy grins does not mean we were not happy in that moment. Hubby and I are two like minded people, who hate being fake, even for a snapshot taken by ourselves. So let us go through our" love story" as the next blog is a doozy.....